


Late Developments

by winchestersinthedrift



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas, First Time, Light Angst, M/M, late season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'He stops talking, because the next picture isn’t of a stained wall or a body - it’s of him, Dean, in three quarter profile from across the room. He’s wearing boot-cut jeans and a short-sleeved button-up, green, god he liked that shirt, and he’s holding a styrofoam take-out container. He’s got a beer against the edge of the table, popping the cap. It’s weird to see himself like that - <i>young</i>, Christ - and Dean can’t see quite why it’d been taken.'</p>
<p>Sam finds an old roll of film wedged up inside the Impala.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Developments

Christmas Eve. Sam goes into town in the morning to get a few things - milk, coffee, more labels for the never-ending Men of Letters inventory - before everything shuts down early. 

When Dean comes into the kitchen around noon he finds steak in the fridge and a six-pack of beer beside it - the kind he likes best, which makes him happy - and on the counter a glossy oversized envelope of 4x6 photos. He looks at it for a minute and double-takes, cause it’s  _ new _ , so new the glossy flap still clings to the envelope with static. Sam comes in from the garage as Dean’s picking it up.

‘What’s this?’ Dean says, ‘I mean - where do you even - why’re you using  _ film _ ?’

‘I’m not,’ says Sam, and his face is a little weird. ‘Found it wedged up under the seat.’

Dean stares at him for a minute. 

‘No way,’ he says finally, not disbelieving but baffled. ‘I mean - I’ve been under there a thousand times - she’s been  _ totalled _ , for chrissake.’

‘I know, man,’ says Sam. ‘It’s weird.’ He sits down, lets his hands dangle between his thighs. There’s a tension in his shoulders. Dean stares at him for a minute, his fingers pressed down into the envelope. It crackles a little. 

‘When’re they from?’ he says, almost in a normal voice, like it doesn’t matter.  Sam doesn’t answer, just shrugs his head a little to the side. Open it. 

The pictures are mostly of heavy mildew patterns across blue wallpaper and then a few of a body on a morgue slab. Dean looks up. 

‘I remember this case,’ he says, ‘it was a - some kind of a water monster -’ 

‘A grindylow,’ says Sam. 

‘Yeah.’ Dean keeps flipping. ‘Yeah, we couldn’t find this roll! I remember. This was - this was the year before, uh, this was the year - before. Right? 2006?’ He licks his lips. ‘Why the hell were we still using  _ film _ ?’ 

‘Killed the digital on the trip up, remember?’ Sam says, ‘You hooked up with that girl with the parrot and her dog knocked it into the toilet. That’s what you told me anyway.’

Dean glances up and his dimples appear for a second. 

‘That’s what happened, asshole.’

Sam laughs.

‘OK. Yeah, and we bought this at a gas station. Disposable.’

‘That’s right,’ says Dean. ‘Yeah, that’s right. I remember.’ 

He stops talking, because the next picture isn’t of a stained wall or a body - it’s of him, Dean, in three quarter profile from across the room. He’s wearing boot-cut jeans and a short-sleeved button-up, green, god he liked that shirt, and he’s holding a styrofoam take-out container. He’s got a beer against the edge of the table, popping the cap. It’s weird to see himself like that -  _ young _ , Christ - and Dean can’t see quite why it’d been taken. 

What makes him pause, though, is that it’s not just a single shot - it’s the same thing to the end of the roll, seven pictures in a row of Dean from across the room: eating noodles while he’s talking, in profile, picking up a folder, glancing across at Sam, smiling. The last picture in the envelope is a close-up of Dean’s face and shoulders, blurred a little, like he’s moving towards the camera. His lips are open and his gaze is a little to the left of the frame,  

‘Didn’t know you took these,’ Dean says, a sort of half-question. Sam shifts his weight, shrugs a little. Dean looks back at the photos.

‘This was - wait, that’s Christmas,’ he says, in a different tone of voice. ‘That’s - you made eggnog. Really fucking strong eggnog.’

‘Yeah,’ says Sam, and it’s like his voice has gone a shade thinner. He’s looking at Dean, watchful. 

‘Why’d you take ‘em?’ Dean says, lightly, without quite knowing why he asked it. ‘Like my outfit that day?’

‘We didn’t take many pictures,’ Sam says, almost without inflection, but Dean follows the strand of thought:  _ I wanted pictures of you. For after you were in hell. _

There’s a flicker of something in Dean’s chest and he’s trying to breathe normally. 

‘If you needed some wank material, Sam, I gotcha those mags,’ he says, reflexive deflection, make ‘em laugh. 

‘What,’ says Sam - startles, really - hand flying up defensively. ‘Dean, what? I didn’t - I just - I just wanted -’

‘Course you didn’t, you nutcase,’ Dean starts, dismissive, and then he glances up and they’re staring at each other. 

‘What’s the matter?’ Dean says, finally, vaguely. Sam’s gripping the edges of the chair. He’s gone very white. 

‘I took those pics - cause - I wanted pictures, yeah, I wanted there to be photos of you,’ he says. ‘But, I mean, that night I almost -’

Dean’s just staring. His jaw is clicking. He’s trying to think through the tinny buzz in his ears and the small but real worry that Sam is maybe losing it. 

‘Sam,’ he says, cautiously, ‘it’s fine, it was just a little weird, but yeah, dude, it’s - it’s fine.’

Sam stands up and he’s holding himself like he does when he’s about to punch someone, or when he’s about to - to -

‘What?’ Sam says, tight. 

Dean’s not sure what’s happening anymore. 

‘What?’ he says back, wary. 

‘What’s fine?’ says Sam, sliding a palm along the counter between them, and Dean doesn’t know what his body’s trying to do but it sure doesn’t want to stand still. He makes a fist and uncurls it, slow. 

‘It’s fine - I mean, the photos, it’s not a big deal,’ he says, trying for the tone of hearty dismissal that usually gets him into the clear, but Sam’s almost on top of him now.

‘It  _ is  _ a big deal,’ says Sam. ‘I mean, Dean, you were gonna be  _ gone _ , I knew you were gonna be gone and I still - I couldn’t - I wanted to - shit, fuck,  _ fuck _ .’

He’s in real distress, now, shoulders curling inwards, and Dean’s instincts override his confusion. He steps up, touches Sam’s forearms, and as he does his mind clicks over like a a kaleidoscope wheel and he knows what was in Sam’s stance before. 

‘Sam,’ he says, like he’s never said it before, and maybe he hasn’t this way. For a second they both stand there in a sort of half-embrace. A very big part of Dean’s brain makes the very good point that he should shift back a little, should pat Sam’s arm and suggest a beer, maybe a late night movie. But Sam’s breath is awfully close, close enough to be warm on Dean’s face and Sam’s lips are a little open and he’s flicking his tongue against his bottom teeth, like he does when he’s nervous, and more even than any of that Dean’s thinking of Sam eight years ago, Sam in that god-awful white shirt hanging car fresheners on a tree and trying to give him Christmas. 

‘Sam,’ he says again, or mouths it maybe, his fingers reflexively brushing his chest where the samulet used to be, and he shoves a leg forward between Sam’s thighs and kisses him. 

Sam tastes like coffee and toothpaste and Dean feels, he feels a little bit drunk. Sam’s hands are somehow ( _ when _ ?) around the back of his neck, both of Sam’s giant hands, thumbs digging in tight up at Dean’s hairline and,  _ god _ , Sam is kissing him like he’s a  _ girl _ , angling his head back and pushing Dean’s mouth open with his tongue. 

Dean’s knees buckle (they fucking  _ buckle _ ) and before he recovers Sam has him pushed up against the wall beside the sink and he’s - jesus  _ christ _ \- he’s scrabbling at Dean’s belt and slipping his long fingers down the front of Dean’s jeans, not just his jeans but right into his briefs and Dean gasps, harsh and obscene, when Sam’s fingertips graze the head of his cock and slide around his foreskin, already slick. 

‘Sam!’ he manages, but Sam’s almost past hearing. He’s thumped down on his knees and even before Dean’s jeans are over his thighs Sam’s mouth is on him, dragging up the side of his cock and letting his lips ( _Sam’s_ _lips_ ) brush over its head. When Sam sinks his mouth almost to Dean’s balls, tongue flicking and sucking, Dean’s knees buckle again ( _fuck_ ) and both of them slide ungracefully to the floor, Dean landing flat on his ass and Sam following him down. Dean gets his palms planted on the floor, slams his head back against the wall and oh _fuck_ jesus _christ_. When he gets his eyes open and rolled back in roughly the right direction Sam’s full-length on the floor in front of him, legs sprawled, up on his elbows, choking himself on Dean’s dick. He’s writhing a little, muscles knotting in his forearms, and while Dean’s watching Sam lifts his head just enough to say, 

‘fuck, I came, I just  _ came _ ,’ and just that like Dean comes too and he  _ sees  _ it, he watches it spurt all over Sam’s open lips and his chin and drip down back over Dean’s cock. 

‘Fuck,’ says Dean, and leans back against the wall. Sam gets up on his knees. He pulls a face and unbuttons his jeans, brushes a hand across his damp crotch. Dean’s cock is still soft but it twitches at the sight. 

‘I’ve wanted to do that for eight years,’ Sam says, smiling. Dean stares at him. 

‘Sam!’ he says, in three or four different tones. Sam smiles again. 

‘I’ll put the steak on,’ he says. ‘Clean up, you perv.’ 


End file.
